Tactical to Practical
by Gixxer Pilot
Summary: Reese told Leon Tao he didn't play video games. While that might be true, Harold has other plans. Or, "Finch buys a company to keep Reese from kneecapping the rest of New York."
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Tactical to Practical

**Author**: Gixxer Pilot

**Beta**: Wicked Jade (though any and all mistakes are mine)

**Summary**: Reese told Leon Tao he didn't play video games. While that might be true, Harold has other plans. Or, "Finch buys a company to keep Reese from kneecapping the rest of New York."

**Author's Notes**: It goes without saying that I'm a humongous nerd. I mean seriously, I've wandered in from the Star Trek reboot fandom. It doesn't get much geekier than that. I'm also a huge fan of video games, specifically first person shooters. And now, I'm also a huge fan of Person of Interest. Combine those three things, toss in my love of humorous, light-hearted bromance stories and the apparent result is this fic.

Comments and criticisms are welcomed – since this is my first attempt at a PoI story, I just let my fingers do the walking while I test-drove voices and characterizations. Hopefully it doesn't suck. In either case, enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: So this is how it goes: if you recognize it, I don't own it. I'm just along for the ride, as it were.

* * *

2012

"I take it you've gotten our latest number settled back in her home?"

"I'm fine, Finch. Thanks for asking," Reese replied, a lit of amusement wafting through his demure tones. Shoving the gate aside, he strolled into the library and hung his coat on the rack before he joined his partner at the room's central table. "And Sarah Westridge can sleep well tonight, knowing her husband has abandoned his plans to kill her for her inheritance."

"I don't suppose the two bullets you left in Jeffery Westridge's kneecaps, along with a laundry list of contusions and broken bones, had anything to do with that _persuasion_, did it?" Finch asked dryly without bothering to look away from his computer screens.

"He insulted the Army Special Forces. I couldn't let him get away with that." John paused, adding for effect, "And he wanted to kill his wife. Both were unscrupulous actions."

Finch harrumphed under his breath. "Even if he's a Force Recon Marine who called the Green Berets, '_Pansy-ass wannabes who never saw any real action_,' was it really necessary to resort to that level of violence?"

"I was there to save his wife. Showing him Army trumps the Corps was a two-for-one. Pretty efficient I think," Reese said, snagging a bottle of water from the mini fridge and twisting the cap open. He took a long pull and asked, "Do you think it was too much?"

Harold shot his employee a scathing and disapproving look. "I've just seen his x-rays, Mr. Reese. I can, without a doubt, confirm that it was overkill." Finch shifted in his chair. He hated to feed the beast as it were; he knew cases of domestic abuse was a glaring hot-button for John, but Finch found he couldn't stop the affirmation from tumbling from his mouth. His lips set in a grim line, he looked Reese in the eye and said, "Even if Westridge deserved every bit of what you gave him."

John's eyes wafted over towards the cracked board the two men used to track the progress of their cases. Finch had taken all Sarah Westridge's information down prior to Reese's arrival. He cleared his throat, cutting through a bit of the tension in the room and moving towards more neutral topics. "Nothing new, Finch?"

"No, strangely," the billionaire replied, tapping away at the keyboard.

"Well, then I think I'll head home. I have firearms to clean."

Finch barely restrained the urge to roll his eyes. "Actually Mr. Reese, if it's not too much of an imposition, I'd like you to table that plan." Finch's hands stilled instantaneously, his posture going rigid all at once. "I've made an appointment for you and I would very much appreciate if you'd keep it."

Reese stopped abruptly and executed a textbook about-face. He sauntered back towards Finch, his expression flicking between incredulity and outright surprise. "You're not trying to set me up on a date, are you? Because the last time you did that, things didn't go well."

"Heavens, no. Miss Angelis was a Number, not a potential match. And Miss Morgan is…Miss Morgan," Finch said, not bothering to suppress the shudder than ran through his body. "No, I was hoping I might convince you to lend a hand to a company I've recently acquired. Their research and development group could make use of your rather unique skill set and expertise."

"A company? What would one of your companies need me for?"

"It's rather a complicated matter I'm afraid. You see, this is a fairly well known company with very lofty expectations weighing on it. Recently, there have been some internal struggles; dismissals of top leadership, lawsuits, half the company's employees resigning abruptly, that sort of thing."

"It's a rudderless ship," Reese supplied, tossing the empty water bottle in the trash situated next to Finch's leg.

"To put it mildly, yes."

"And those mass resignations? Most of them were what type of employees, exactly?"

"Research. Specifically, those who focused on making the product as realistic as possible." Finch stood up, rubbing at a particularly stiff bundle of nerves near his left oblique. Hobbling over towards the small cabinet used to house random photos and documents, Harold selected a manila file and produced a piece of paper with printed list of names. He held it out to Reese, returning to his chair as the paper changed hands. "The resignation of those twenty-three people may have very well sunk the company. They were halfway through developing their latest project, but without their essential employees, meeting their obligations will be a tall order to say the least."

Reese's eyebrows furrowed together as he read off the names on the list. "So if this company is going down faster than the Titanic, why buy it? That's not like you."

Finch's fingers stopped typing for a split second. He turned his entire torso to face Reese, and with a lift from the corner of his mouth, he said coyly, "Let's just say I was being optimistic."

Reese shook his head, pointing the list of names at Finch. "You hired _me_ to improvise. _You_ don't do anything that's not perfectly orchestrated."

_Busted._ Finch's face fell. Quickly masking his surprise, Harold turned back to his computer screens. "Well yes, Mr. Reese. Though I perused the company's financials and business proposals filed with the SEC since its inception before I made my offer, my decision in this case was far more utilitarian than anything else."

Reese titled his head down, giving Finch the universal (or at least the John Reese) sign for 'go on'.

Harold laid the palms of his hands gently on the desktop, stating somewhat haltingly, "To be perfectly frank, it's to keep you from killing people unnecessarily."

John raised an eyebrow. "Thanks to you, I don't do that anymore, Finch."

"No, you don't outright kill them. You either kneecap them or you just, as Detective Fusco puts it, 'Break their faces'. I'm sure Mr. Westridge can attest to your prowess in that area."

"Well, it works," Reese said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "Why mess with success?"

Finch sighed. "That is exactly my point. Although I'm far more solvent than most of the world's governments, I do prefer that my resources go towards more _positive_ projects every now and again."

"Isn't that what the Machine was for?"

"Yes, but the Machine is a macro element. This would be more of a micro-scale project."

Reese let his eyes wander up to the ceiling, cataloguing each crack, spider web and water stain of the old building. He returned to 'his' chair, the one adjacent to Finch's table, sprawling in it inelegantly. John drummed his fingers against the pockmarked and scarred wood while he eyed his employer critically. "You've never had a problem with my methods. Why bring it up now? You knew what you kind of man you were getting when you hired me."

Finch sighed, looking down at his hands resting insipidly in his lap. "Yes, yes I did, Mr. Reese. Please accept my apologies – the harshness of my statements were uncalled for." Finch shifted in his chair, shoving aside the keyboard and camera joystick. Looking Reese in the eye, he said earnestly, "Think of it is as 'something to do', John."

Silence. And then, after a long pause, John's head tilted back and forth. "All right. I'll bite. This company? What is it?" Reese asked.

Though he tried desperately to temper his enthusiasm, the relief that flowed through Finch's frame was obvious. "Tell me: have you ever heard of a developer called Infinity Ward?"

A pause as Reese searched his memory for any such name. "No. Can't say I have."

"I'm not surprised, if I'm honest. You're not exactly their target demographic, though men our age are hardly ignored by their marketing strategists."

"Finch," Reese began, leaning into Harold's personal space. He blinked a couple of times as a smirk crept up the corners of his mouth. "What is it?"

"Perhaps it would be better if I showed you," Harold said, pulling the keyboard and joystick closer to his chest. He punched in a couple of commands on the keyboard and in an instant, the screens cleared of the Machine's data, replaced instead by images that made up the utter chaos of combat. The speakers well integrated into the wall hummed to life, spitting out the soundtrack of a battlefield; the rat-tat-tat of small arms fire melted in with the urgent shouts of the combatants as the scream of jet engines roared through the sky. Explosions rocked the screen, sending debris and shrapnel flying in every direction.

Reese's eyebrows jumped a couple of notches on his forehead. Had he really gotten _that_ old? John knew that computers and video games had come a long way, but this was incredible. He could almost feel it – the heat on his face from exploding ordinance, the sweat running down his back and under his body armor, the pounding in his chest that was his own heartbeat as adrenaline coursed through his system. His fingers twitched as he watched the screen, his muscles wanting desperately to reach for the magazine release on the rifle that wasn't actually in his hands.

"What you're watching is Infinity Ward's last offering, Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3. I thought, with experience from your former MOS and some of the more…clandestine experiences, you'd be able to offer the much-needed insight. I'd like you to work with the project leads to help them craft a realistic storyline," Finch told him, almost as if he were reading the reheating instructions on last night's pizza.

Literally ripping his eyes from the demo, John pointed one finger towards the screen as a couple of brightly colored printed pages, the game's summary, appeared under his nose. "You want me to help develop a video game?" he asked as he accepted the literature from his boss.

"Yes, Mr. Reese. I do. Will that be a problem?"

"That depends. It sounds like there's a lot of work to be done here."

"The time commitment will likely be minimal. Expect planning meetings, perhaps a few brainstorming huddles and maybe a motion-capture session or two, just to make sure the illustrators are getting it right." Finch held up a hand. "I will ensure that anything you do for Infinity Ward will not interfere with your work on the Numbers."

John's attention returned to the game. His eyes sparkled and, before he could stop it, a full-fledged smile bloomed across his face. Tilting his head to the side, he said succinctly, "If you can guarantee that, then no, it won't be a problem."

In fact, this might actually be…fun.

Imagine that.

* * *

**Next Up**: Fusco has a horrible, no good, rotten, very bad day. And it's all courtesy of John Reese.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes**: To be honest, I wasn't entirely thrilled with the last chapter. While Reese's voice comes pretty naturally to me, Finch's (and indeed his thought process) does not. Unfortunately, I feel like it showed in the dialogue exchange between Reese and Finch. Or I'm just being overly picky, because I'm used to writing Kirk, McCoy and Pike from the Star Trek fandom – three characters I could literally write in my sleep. In any case, Fusco's voice comes as easily to me as Reese's does, so I'm hoping this chapter will fare a little better.

**Disclaimer**: Still not mine? No? Really? Damn. All right, if that's how it's going to be, then I guess I'll have to claim no money made from anything I write. I do it only to appease my muses.

* * *

2013

Lionel Fusco was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a philosophical man. He took things as they came and at face value, both good and bad, and made with them what he could. But even he had to admit that every now and again, he wondered how different his life's path might have been had he followed through on Stills' order and left Reese rotting somewhere in Oyster Bay. Left him _dead_ – emphasis on 'dead' – and rotting somewhere in Oyster Bay, specifically.

One thing was for sure: one actually dead John Reese would have meant a lot fewer headaches for the beleaguered detective, his current predicament being no exception. Fusco really thought that this time he might actually kill the man, CIA-trained weapon of destruction be damned. It was one of those days that Lionel wished he spoke a language besides English, because cursing someone to the seventh layer of hell in Russian would probably have been a lot more entertaining than doing it in English.

For the fortieth time.

In the last half hour.

November in the northeast was always predictably unpredictable; Fusco spent the better part of the day wishing the weather would shit or get off the pot. Rain _or_ snow – not both, and certainly not both at the same time, and especially when he was forced to tail the Mystery Boys' latest infatuation on foot through half of Brooklyn. By the time Fusco slid, boneless, into his cruiser, his shoes were soaked, his slacks were ruined (courtesy of a FedEx truck who Lionel swore was aiming for the puddle at the corner), his tie was missing (he had no idea how or where he lost it), and his hair was a hopeless, tangled mess (probably from pulling it by its roots in frustration). All he wanted to do was go back to the station, change into something dry and have a scalding cup of coffee to warm up. And maybe shoot John, if he could find him.

It took three tries after he pulled the car into the lot reserved for fleet vehicles at the 8th, but eventually the detective managed to summon the energy to peel himself from the driver's seat. Digging through his pocket, he checked his phone, thankful it survived the trip through the great outdoors. He let out a sigh of relief that he hadn't missed any calls from Lee or his ex; pissing off Lee's mother was the last thing he needed now. Lionel sighed and trudged up the cement stairs, glaring icy daggers at anyone who dared look at him on his way in as he made a beeline for the locker room. Fusco tossed his destroyed suit in the garbage, threw on his street clothes and made his way upstairs to the precinct's crash pad for a little R&R.

Though the layout resembled a scaled-down army barrack, the creature comforts adorning every available nook and cranny of the room spoke to the more civilized (and downright childish) nature of the inhabitants. A small refrigerator sat tucked away behind one of the bunks; resting on top of that was a microwave that actually worked. A coffee table, fully stocked with an assortment of sporting, firearms and Maxim magazines respectively, hid behind a privacy curtain that separated the bunks from the recreation area. Above the coffee table, someone had the foresight to install a TV, complete with a Playstation 3 propped up on a shelf just adjacent. Soda cans and food wrappers littered the area near the trash can; clearly, the desk sergeant hadn't been up here in a while to remind his underlings to clean up after themselves.

Fusco snorted as he walked by, giving the handful of patrol cops playing Call of Duty a quick nod of his chin. He shook his head, wondering when blasting away at computerized bad guys in Kevlar vests replaced bonding time over a cup of bad coffee and good conversation at a local diner. Pushing the thought from his mind, Lionel flopped down gracelessly onto one of the eight bunk beds lining the small room and attempted to block out the sound of the game coming through the TV's speakers.

The edges of sleep were tugging relentlessly at the detective's subconscious, willing him to give in. But there was something familiar about the dialogue wafting from the game a few feet away. It was almost as if he'd been there, as if his brain could fill in the conversation and supply him with the visuals before it actually played out on the screen. With a hearty groan, Fusco cracked his eyes open, propped his face up on his fist and watched the game's cut scene play out.

If he didn't absolutely and unequivocally detest John Reese when he was wringing the water out of his unmentionables, he most certainly _hated_ the guy now. Lionel reminded himself to breath – in and out, in and out, slowly and in control – while he tempered some rather robust homicidal urges that popped forth in his brain. He felt the tips of his ears go pink as his blood rushed through his body. Equal parts embarrassment and anger flooded his system as Lionel watched as a brief snippet from his life play out on the game's screen.

High-ceilinged, half-empty warehouse? Check.

The pair of protagonist characters tied to chairs? Check.

Psychotic Aryans with very large bolt clippers, too much testosterone and not enough brains? Check.

One anxiety-ridden, barking Belgian Malinois? Check.

One figurative lone wolf, forced to his knees by a blow to the back of his neck, with a maniacal gleam to his eyes? Check.

Fusco all but sighed, remembering to keep his jaw closed as to not draw attention to himself. He knew what was coming next even though he couldn't completely make out the exchange of dialogue. The sharp staccato barking continued, matched a half-second later by a throatier set of foreign words Lionel still had yet to master. The incessant sound stopped instantaneously; it was followed by one more command, softer this time, almost careful. Fusco heard the pitch of the game's music ratchet up in anticipation as the patrol cops took back control. An exchange of gunfire, some fisticuffs and the man with the bolt cutters thrown through a broken window later, the three protagonists managed to free themselves from their binds and were on their merry way to their next mission.

Knowing sleep was all but futile, the detective rolled off the bunk and snagged his phone from his jeans pocket. What he was about to do probably wasn't classified as wise, but Fusco's slightly wounded male ego quickly cast aside logic in favor of retribution. Pulling up Reese's name from the list, Lionel dialed the number, found the inside of the supply closet and waited for a response.

'_Hello, Lionel. Did you miss me?_'

Fusco all but growled at Reese. "Like hell. If you were standing in front of me right now, I might actually shoot you."

'_And here I thought we got along so well. What have I done to deserve this kind of hostility?_'

"Well for starters, you and Glasses dragged me halfway around the world today. In the snow and the rain, I might add. You know, you boys don't pay me enough for this kind of shit and it's starting to piss me off," Fusco exclaimed, stabbing one finger through the air as if Reese was standing in front of him.

John huffed, no doubt smirking the way he did when he was just about to start a fight. He let out a breath and asked simply, '_And?_'

"'And'? What the hell do you mean, 'And'? That's it?" Fusco half-exclaimed, right hand shooting out at his side as he gesticulated animatedly in the empty room.

'_Well you say this like I should be concerned_.'

Lionel barely resisted the urge to slap himself in the forehead. Shaking his head, he said to the ex-CIA agent, "Has anyone ever told you what an ass you are? Because if they haven't, let me be the first to say it. You're an ass."

'_Well, I'm glad to know I'm so popular with you. Now what's your point?_'

Fusco snorted out loud. "My point is that, after I finally get back to the house to clean up, I go up to our crash pad to find a small army of flatfoots playing Call of Duty. And what do I see on this video game?" Fusco stopped for dramatic effect, swallowing hard a couple of times to wet his mouth.

'_Well, I don't know, Lionel. I haven't honed my psychic abilities well enough yet to see the world through your eyes_,' John replied.

Fusco ground his back molars so hard against each other he was certain his dentist was cringing on the other end of New York. "Let me tell you what I saw, Reese. I see a scene that's scarily similar to the predicament of one Leon Tao in the middle of Call of Duty. Complete with an angry Belgian dog and Aryans wielding large bolt cutters. You wouldn't happen to know how that wound up in the game, would you?" he asked accusingly.

'_Why do you automatically assume it was me? As you mentioned, Leon was there, too, and he's a much bigger pain in the ass than I am._'

Lionel snorted. "That," he began, "is highly debatable. You're always a pain in my ass, and this? This has your name written all over it."

Some shuffling on Reese's end of the connection made its way through the feed. '_You're right_,' the former CIA agent admitted almost smugly.

Caught completely off guard by John's confession, Fusco sputtered out a few choice curse words intermixed with half-sentences, trying desperately to bridge the gap between his brain and his mouth. Lionel closed his eyes, took a breath and finally said, "So lemme guess: one of your aliases found a new career."

'_Something like that. Finch insisted_,' Reese said casually.

"Just my lucky day." Grumbling, Fusco grabbed a seat on top of a five gallon bucket while he propped his feet up on the shelf next to the toilet paper rolls. "So you want to tell me what the hell you were thinking? Because let me tell you – you should stick to kneecapping people if your secondary career is to embarrass me every chance you get," Lionel said, huffing out a large breath at the end of the sentence.

'_Lighten up, Detective. It's for your own good.' _

"Yeah, I don't see it that way."

_'Our mutual experience with the Aryans worked perfectly with the storyline.' _Reese's end went silent for a beat. When he spoke again, his tone was different. Lighter, still antagonistic, but almost friendly, if only in a slightly psychotic way. '_Besides, I left out the part about the ball gags during our planning sessions_.'

Fusco opened his mouth to reply, to attempt to tear Reese a new one over the phone, but tell-tale click in his ear told him Reese terminated the connection. "Asshole," he muttered under his breath. Glaring at his phone, he gripped the plastic device so tight his knuckles turned white. The detective pursed his lips, shoved the phone back in the pocket of his pants and ran one hand over his face. He killed the light in the storage room, threw the door open and stepped out into the entropy that was the 8th precinct.

Yeah, fuck John Reese.

Pain in the ass.

* * *

**Next Up**: "John Reese from Lionel Fusco at 11.46 of the second period. Reese from Fusco at 11.46." Or, Fusco proves there are some things even Wonderboy can't do.


End file.
